Faustus
by GorimJr
Summary: A school assignment; Cinna's story based around the old Faust legends. Deals with the Devil never pan out, but some still find redemption, even if it's private. Spoilers for The Hunger Games and Catching Fire.


**This is actually a school assignment (write a story based on the old Faust legend), but I'm pretty proud of it. I took some liberities and added in my own theories that never panned out. I hope you enjoy it!**

The Capitol is a place of excess and overindulgence, reminiscent of the old French Monarchy from centuries before. Its citizens live in a state of ignorance and bliss, unaware (or uncaring) of the thousands starving in the twelve industrial districts that support them. It's a city of vibrant colors and dark underbellies, of wild fashions and cutthroat politics.

Cinna has no use for the politics, but he loves the styles.

Perhaps it's the knowledge that anything he thinks of is, because of the Capitol's superior technology, within reach. Making someone look like an ember with illusion, or literally lighting someone with harmless fire. All of them were, with the proper people behind it, easily reality.

He has no use for the more irritating fashions. The surgeries and dyes. These are not for him. It's the fabric and the clothing he enjoys bringing to life.

This is what he wants to do. Not politics, like his brother, sister-in-law and father. He was to be a stylist.

But there's really only one way to get out of the politics path.

He doesn't remember ever calling his father "Dad", "Father", or anything that would insinuate that Cinna was his son. He calls him what everyone else does.

"President Snow," he says quietly as he closes the door behind him. His father's office is large, but also devoid of anything hinting at a family; two sons, a daughter-in-law, a granddaughter, a dead wife. No pictures adorn the walls or desks, no cute gifts or mementos (Because God forbid young Cinna ever gave him anything) rest on any surfaces. Just pens and lamps and papers; they are the only personal effects.

No wonder people think he's still single. He gives them no reason to think otherwise.

President Snow looks up and raises a very pale eyebrow.

"Hello, Cinna. What a surprise." This is true; Cinna makes a point of never coming to see his father. Just looking at the man makes him feel sick. They disagree on many things, and none of them are trivial. Cinna's quite certain that if he were just a man on the street, he'd have been thrown into the Peacekeeper Detention Center years ago. It's not a happy thought.

"I have something to tell you." His father watches him, like a snake watches a bird. It would be disconcerting to anyone else, but Cinna's grown up with it.

"Yes?"

"I don't want to go into politics," the younger man says quietly. Snow raises his eyes to the Heavens, making a show of relief.

"Thank God. I imagine we'd be at war with every other country on the planet if we let you be a diplomat." Cinna's face feels hot, but he doesn't let his irritation color his tone in any way.

"I would like to be a stylist." The president of Panem stares at him for a moment, then his shoulders being to shake and his over-large lips begin to twitch. Cinna scowls.

"I'm serious!" He says as a few choking sounds escape his father. "I want to make clothes." That does it. The older man falls into gals of laughter, his fist banging on the desk and his paper white face gaining some color. Cinna crosses his arms and waits impatiently for the fit to pass.

When the president finally stops laughing, there's blood coloring his lips. Cinna resists the urge to go over to him; it would be unappreciated. Still chuckling, Snow wipes the blood away and actually _grins._

"It's not funny," Cinna snaps.

"It is though," Snow says with glee. "You want to _make clothes!_" Cinna bites back a dozen scathing replies and waits. Snow smiles as he (hopefully) thinks about it. Then he looks at his son again.

"Fine. You can go do what you want with my blessing." _Wonderful,_ Cinna thinks sarcastically._ I just wanted to get out of here without my knees busted, but you think I wanted your blessing._ He was a bit bitter, because it pretty much amounts to the same thing.

"But on one condition," the older man continues. Cinna frowns slightly.

"And what would that be?" He asks. President Snow smiles wider, looking a bit bloodthirsty with his teeth stained with the blood.

"You act as a stylist for the Hunger Games."

Cinna's heart plummets. The Hunger Games is the bloodbath of Panem; small children all younger than eighteen, being shoved into an arena to kill or die. And Stylists, twisted, disgusting Stylists, go in and dress them up in the days before their battles so they're more attractive for the Capitolites.

"I won't." Cinna says stubbornly. President Snow shrugs.

"Then you won't be anything but an awful diplomat," he says uncaringly.

"I _can't._" The pain is audible in Cinna's voice. President Snow doesn't back down.

"Then you can't be anything but an awful diplomat." Cinna swallows; moral dignity and the desperate yearn to create battling for supremacy in him.

The yearning to create wins.

"What district?" He asks dully.

"It doesn't matter," his father says dismissively. "District One?"

District One is the district of gems and gold and silver. A million ideas, none of them thrilling but all good enough for the Capitol, spring up in his brain.

But then he remembers another idea he had.

_Fire_.

"District Twelve," he says firmly. "If I'm going to do this, I want District Twelve."

"Like I said, it doesn't matter," President Snow says. But he looks at Cinna curiously. "Why Twelve? Why coal?"

"That's my business," Cinna says stiffly. Snow shrugs.

"Fine. Get a team and do what you want."

Cinna walks out of the room feeling dirty, with the impression that he'd just made a deal with the Devil.

It's everything he's ever dreamed of and more. He finally has a way to vent, to channel his emotions. Through stitches and fabric and harmless flame, he vents his anger at the Games, at himself, at his father. It's a confusing situation to be in. He's doing what he wants, what he's chosen, for the first time in years. But he does it for the Games, something he abhors. He's doing a job he loves in a situation he despises. Preparing children to die. Dressing them up for their doom.

The only upsides are the people.

His team is the same as most of the Capitol; well meaning but empty-headed; enthusiastic, but casually cruel. His partner, Portia, shares his sentiments, but with a happier, more optimistic point of view that he only wishes he could have.

And then there are the tributes.

Peeta is with Portia and her team, so he doesn't see him often, but he seems like a decent fellow, strong and kind and warm and likable. But the girl, _his_ tribute, Katniss… She's something else completely.

The prep team, Venia and Flavius and Octavia, come roaring into the antechamber after readying Katniss. They're gushing about her; oh, she's so tough and sweet and charming. The more they gush, the worse he feels.

_Wonderful. I'm helping them kill a wonderful young woman before her time._

They talk, and she _is_ wonderful. She's understandably dubious about his first costume (a black leotard with a special cape and headdress, both of which will be set ablaze with synthetic fire. _Katniss, the girl who was on fire_), but they soon establish trust. Instead of bemoaning his miserable, double-edged sword of a fate, he begins to make costumes thinking, _This could help her get sponsors. This could help her in the long run._

Dresses with gems patterned like flame.

His job is no longer a punishment in paradise. It's his devotion to keeping her safe in the only way he can.

_Maybe I'll forgive myself for sending her to her death…_

He watches the Games on the television from between his fingers. Children become animals as they're shoved into corners and forced to fight. The humanity in them dims, then vanishes completely.

But that's not the only thing he notices.

Peeta and Katniss remain strong. They even seem to fall in love. And Katniss; dear, sweet, strong, amazing, reckless Katniss, finds a way for them both to live.

Two handfuls of poisonous berries, eaten at the same time…

They're stopped before it happens, and they both win.

At least, that's how it seems.

But as Katniss and Peeta sleep, a storm is brewing. Metaphorical clouds rumble and gather, and Haymitch, Katniss and Peeta's mentor, makes the situation clear to Cinna and Portia.

"The only way they can live is if we make them as non-threatening as possible," he snarls, pacing back and forth frantically. "But why am I saying 'we'? That's your job!"

And it is. It's easiest for Peeta; he's already non-threatening enough. But Katniss…

Katniss, the girl who dropped a nest of genetically mutated wasps on other children, and shot a boy in the throat with an arrow, and had the idea to eat the berries…

Katniss, the one who must look as unassuming as possible…

Cinna spends several hours banging his head against a wall, desperate for ideas. Finally, one comes to him.

The girl on fire must stay on fire. But why must it be a forest fire when there are so many other, softer kinds of flame?

_Candlelight…_

He stares dreamily at candles for hours before he makes the dress just right.

They're in love. That's the story. And they're alive.

So why doesn't Cinna feel as if he's made amends? Why is there the idea that there's still something more he can do, teasing the back of his mind like a fly?

The Victory Tour comes and goes. He helps Katniss with her "talent", mandatory for all Victors. She insists she has no talent, so they figure something out.

He makes her clothes and she takes the credit for them. "Fashion" is her talent.

Anything to make him stop feeling so awful about what he did.

Talk of the next Game, the 75th Game, the Quarter Quell, begins spreading through the Capitol. Peeta proposes to Katniss, so the next thing Cinna must make is wedding dresses.

Pearls and flowers and silk and satin is not so much different than anything else he's used.

The Quarter Quell is special. It's always different from the usual Games in some way. One year there was forty-eight tributes instead of twenty four, two girls and two boys from each District, instead of just a boy and a girl.

This year, the tributes will be Victors.

There is only one female Victor in District Twelve.

Cinna's friend. His girl on fire.

But there's trouble in the Districts, and Haymitch and the other Victors are in the eye of the storm.

"Cinna, can we trust you?" Haymitch asks. Cinna doesn't know why he says 'we', but he nods anyway. "Do you know what's happening in the districts?'

Chaos and uprisings. There are shortages of everything in the Capitol. But so many have no idea; they take the stories they're told by the papers as truth and continue their daily lives.

Cinna nods slowly.

"Then you know what the Mockingjay means to people now?" Haymitch presses. The mockingjay, the bird Katniss' little pin is modeled after. It's become the symbol of the rebellion.

Again, Cinna nods.

Quickly, quietly, Haymitch explains about the rebellion, District Thirteen, and the relevance of Katniss and the mockingjay.

"We're going to break out of the Quarter Quell," he finishes. "And Katniss will be the Mockingjay. We need your help to make something suitably impressive and useful. Think you can do it?" Cinna grins.

"What do you have for me to work with?"

"Honestly? Anything you need."

_Perfect_.

He sketches out armor for her, armor that suggests the mockingjay. But that's not enough for him. Rage at his father and the Capitol still bubbles up in him.

_The girl on fire must become the Mockingjay._

His father demands that Katniss wears her wedding dress at the final interview.

"That's sick!" Cinna protests, his hands flat against Snow's desk. Snow continues to sign papers. "It's-"

"Necessary." Snow interrupts. "You're lucky I haven't killed her already."

"You have," Cinna snarls. "You just did it in the coward's way." Snow's eyes flash.

"Be careful what you say here. You're my son, but that doesn't make you invulnerable." Cinna's jaw clenches but he relents.

Or so President Snow thinks.

Cinna makes his adjustments to the pearl-studded dress.

_The girl on fire must become the Mockingjay._

"I made some adjustments for the lighting," he tells her. She obviously doesn't buy it, but she doesn't call him out on it. He tells her to twirl when he tells her too.

She doesn't need the sign, however. She knows. She twirls, and the transformation begins.

The white silk is charred black by flame, the pearls fall to the ground, and in a small wave of sparks, she is the Mockingjay. Before the elegant transformation, he is a Stylist for the Games. Now, he's a stylist for the Rebellion.

There is no going back. He's broken his deal with the Devil.

The demons come when she's helpless, waiting to be taken into the arena, and he's unawares.

They beat him senseless and drag him away. But he's surprisingly content.

He feels redeemed. He helped. He's given her a chance.

He tries to smile as Katniss, horrified and tearful, is taken to the arena.

_I'm still betting on you, Girl on Fire._


End file.
